Skip to main content

My Neighbor

 I think we are all, to varying degrees, cracking under the pressures of adult life. And I think one sign of a substantial "crack" can be: the state of the dog.


On my back road, we have Buster, who could use some care. Buster himself is delightful, but Buster's owners seem overwhelmed. Their fence is crumbling, and they haven't found time to address the problem; instead, they have erected a kind of symbolic faux-fence, which makes me think of the barricade from "Les Miserables." There is actually a child's plastic "steering wheel" in this fence. And a rotting wooden plank. And a few fallen branches, some bright-rainbow bits from a rake, some wires.


Because this fence does nothing, nothing at all, Buster just steps over the steering wheel and finds himself in our own yard. Or in any number of yards.


No one here wants to be confused with the family that owns Buster. In fact, at a cocktail party, you might hear someone murmur, "We live on the road--and we have a white-yellow dog....not Buster."


You might sometimes see a crazed woman wandering the back road, asking: "Where is my dog?" If you explain that Buster has migrated to another lawn, the woman will say, "The kids left our gate open." And this is uncomfortable for everyone because: (1) clearly, a closed gate wouldn't address the "Les Miserables" situation and (2) maybe the children are being asked to take care of something they're not old enough to be responsible for.


I think the only reply, in this case, is a gentle, evasive, white lie. You can say: "Kids these days!" Or: "When will they learn????"


And we all lurch along, doing our best. Some days are easier than others.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more